


follow me into the endless night

by silvertrumpets (baelished)



Category: Actor RPF, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: (only a bit), Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Bottom Viggo, Dacryphilia, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Pegging, Rimming, Sorry Viggo, Strap-Ons, Teasing, Viggo Mortensen assigned bottom, dom reader, rimjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baelished/pseuds/silvertrumpets
Summary: Some self-indulgent Viggo/reader pegging to spice up the LOTR RPF tag.
Relationships: Viggo Mortensen/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	follow me into the endless night

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know exactly how I ended up here, or if anyone else will even read this, but here we are. This is pure fiction: a porn story that is inspired by my own fantasies and imaginations. It has no bearing in real life and is not intended to offend in any way. 
> 
> Reader is not explicitly gendered in any words or titles but uses a strap-on and has a vagina. 
> 
> Huge, huge shoutout to beta supreme whatiwouldnotgive for her eagle-eye, endless encouragements, and advice on the unsexiness of certain words. This fic would not exist without her, and I am a better writer for knowing her.  
> Kudos as well to my partner thebeaconsarelit for always telling me what’s hot or not. Happy to cater to this shared fantasy, you two! 
> 
> Title from “Meet Me in the Woods” by Lord Huron.

“My _God_ , you are so fucking _beautiful_ ,” you whisper, spreading his ass wide with your thumbs. A light dusting of hair—once sandy blond, now peppered with gray—circles the interior flesh, enticing you. Calling you to the puckered hole, which clenches and pulses in anticipation as his muscles flex in wait. 

A prime imitation of a cock juts from your hips, held securely in place by thick black straps that frame your thighs. It’s a wonderful device, truly as beautiful as it is ingenious, but you ignore the toy for now and instead bend down further to survey his hole. 

“C’mon,” he says, impatience sneaking into his breathy voice, manifesting boldness into his begging tone. “Please.” He rocks back towards you, a needy little thrust that brings the tip of your nose to the ridge of his ass. You breathe him in deep, the musky, full scent of his skin taut in your nostrils; privy to this private, intimate part of him. 

“Alright.” A smile plays on your lips; a proud, bold grin, the trace of which stays plastered on your cheeks. 

The skin is tight around the muscled ring of his hole, and you dust your tongue tenderly over the little ridges. Nice and slow, just the hint of a touch, the ghost of a lick. Viggo shivers, and he gasps out a low growl from between what you suspect are tightly clenched teeth. “Fuck,” he offers, the word quick and short from his mouth. You have to agree. 

Swiping in a tight circular motion, you wet the outside of his asshole, saliva glistening bright on the reddening flesh. Flattening your tongue, you lick down his slick taint, finding his balls and sucking on as much of them as you can manage. He shifts his weight on the bed, making his balls sway with the movement. His cock, nearly hard with pearls of arousal dotting the tip, jostles against his belly. You would smirk if your mouth wasn’t working over his balls, the weight of them heavy on your tongue, the wrinkled skin rolling beneath your lips. 

Mirroring the steady licks of your tongue, you drag your free hand down his spine, fingers slow and sensitive over the bumpy discs of bone poking out from his back. His soft skin is addled with age, lines and sags from where he’s grown up, into, and out of his body. He arches into your touch, goosebumps erupting on his lower back. You tap your fingers mischievously over his tramp stamp, playing a quick melody of touch, then slide your palms back down to his ass, giving it a hard squeeze trailed by a firm slap. A hissed breath escapes his throat and comes out miraculously high-pitched. “Please,” he says again, voice dripping with deep-brewed desperation. “Please, I need it.” 

You give his balls another wet nudge, then lick back up to his ass, pulling him apart and decorating the quivering, twitching hole with a long, sloppy kiss, your tongue doing more work than your lips. 

“Come _on_ ,” he says, a bit more forcefully, but he’s still blushed and breathless and it comes out as a needy little plea, words tripping over his arousal. He shifts on the bed again, the mattress creaking as he does. “You know I’ve done this before. I won’t fucking break.”

Smiling, you pull away enough to speak, your lips still ghosting over his ass. “Your pretty little asshole deserves to be _worshipped_ ,” you counter. “That’s why I’m going slow. So I can make every part of you feel good.” He wriggles his hips at that, shaking his ass against your mouth and pushing back against you. But you figure you’ve teased him enough. For now. 

You press your thumbs to either side of his hole and pull so it’s spread open for you, wide and gaping and wet from your mouth. It’s still too tight to open that much, but seeing it on display sends shocks of excitement through your body. “Fuck,” you murmur, watching the muscles flutter, trying to clench shut. That won’t do. “Let’s loosen you up, Vig.”

He stiffens when you probe his hole with the tip of your tongue, breaching the rim gently. His shoulders seek to knit together out of tension and his thighs shake, making him wobble dangerously on the bed. The tight little spit-slick entrance tries to push you out, not ready for this much intrusion. As a counterargument, you squeeze two handfuls of his round cheeks, just enough to distract him so you can slide your tongue inside. A little mewl gets caught in his throat, transforms into a low growl of pleasure almost instantly. Encouraged, you swipe your tongue inside him, urging him open with your insistent mouth. He tastes of skin and sweat and something so wholly _Viggo_ , earthy and secure in its faint flavor. 

You would praise him if you had the willpower to take your tongue out. _That’s it, what a good fucking boy, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, fucking perfect, I’m gonna fuck your brains out, Viggo Mortensen._

Instead, you rub your thumb lightly against the flexed flesh of his thigh, scratching it kindly with the pad of your finger and hoping it conveys the gentle praise he deserves. His hole weakens enough that you can flick your tongue inside him, darting in with a hearty rhythm; the same you’d use if you were fucking him with your fingers or a cock. Little grunts seep from between his lips, guttural noises that convey a deep-seeded pleasure and make arousal poke and pulse in your belly. Fucking perfect like this, falling apart, falling open. 

Body relaxed now, his hips thrust backwards to urge your tongue deeper into his flexing little hole. When he opens his mouth next, small whines spill from his throat, delayed and deep like all the wind has been knocked out of him. His clever tongue, usually pliant with smart jabs and poetic energy, is drained of words for the time being. 

The light, familiar taste of him fills your mouth as you plunge deeper, drool dripping down your chin; the wrinkles of skin lining his hole play filthy games against your tongue, a labyrinth maze of lines to explore. You come up for air for a moment, gasping, spit sticking to your lips and to the ridges of his cherry-tinged asshole. “Fucking _delicious_ ,” you gasp out, because that’s what he is. Absolutely fucking delectable. Delightful. Like nectar you’ll never get enough of, that you’ll never stop craving as long as you live. 

A short gasp of stuttered breath, a plea breaking free from his parted lips. “Please.” The single word fills your brain with a welcome buzz. 

“Mm?” You nuzzle into his crack, slapping his ass with one hand. The skin shudders and jiggles, the shadow of a handprint dusting the lily-white canvas as you draw your hand back. “Please _what?_ ”

Immediately, he says, “Fuck me,” and you know instantly you’ve got him right where you want him. Coming undone beneath you, _begging_ for it, needing it deep in his very bones. He shudders, shaking under your hands. Shivering. “Please fuck me.”

You chuckle lightly, a cold little laugh. Mocking him when he’s vulnerable might feel unfair under different circumstances, but you intend to take your time with him, not bringing him to the height of pleasure until you’re good and ready. Until he’s been properly loved with your tongue, your teeth, your words. “I will, I promise. Keep being good for me; see what it gets you.” He sighs, a quick wheeze of breath, and nods, silver-sand hair flopping over his forehead. 

You grasp his cock where it hangs between his legs, hard and fat and dripping, and slide your hand down its length, using his arousal as lubricant. It jumps at the attention, and he grunts, rocking on the bed again. He tries to jerk into your hand, but your grip keeps him entirely under your command. You tease over his loosened hole, timing firm strokes with long swipes of your tongue. His cock is messy between your fingers, drooling translucent beads of pre-cum from the tip. It’s thick and heavy, veins tracing little maps over the slick skin, the head full and wide as you rub your thumb beneath it. He growls and shakes his head in frustration; you smile to see all this riling him up so much. Impressed, you roll his balls in your hand, testing the weight of them, squeezing them tightly before sliding back to his dick, pressing your palm against it persistently. 

“You want this?” you ask smugly, taking your hand away. He offers a tiny choked noise that might be a panicked “hey!”—but he falls silent as you stroke a slickened finger into his hole. It’s easy going with your saliva ringed around it, and you push in to the knuckle; warm, soft heat wraps around your finger as he swallows you greedily. He clicks his teeth, huffing air out through his nose. The wheeze of it echoes in a low whistle.

“Let me hear you, Mortensen,” you growl, leaning your head down to rest on the small of his back, the muscles in his spine moving against your chin. He’s restless, anxious, desire planted so deep within him it’s a wonder he has any willpower left to hold himself upright. Your words are spitfire, but rear their tender underbelly when paired with your silken touches. “I know you can do better than that. Let it out.” _Erode that sweet, soft-spoken edge and reveal the slut I know you are underneath._

“Fuck!” he says loudly, voice raspy and raw, a firm answer to your command. You smirk and slide another finger inside him. He bucks his hips back with erratic force, slamming both of your fingers against his prostate before you have the ability to move them. Whimpering, he chokes out a breathy “ _oh_ ,” his head falling forward against the mattress, the plush material thumping with the force of the added weight. You thrust your fingers into him, brushing the little bundle of nerves deep in his ass, forcing a choke out of his mouth. “Fuck me harder, please, harder.” His words are muffled against a mess of sheets, not loud enough for your taste, so you yank his head up by his hair with your free hand, making him yelp at the surprise force. 

“What was that?” you ask, fisting your hand fiercely in his hair, hard against his scalp. “I can’t hear you, little brat.”

His body jolts and jerks as he tries to free himself from your tight grip, though at the same time, he pushes his ass back against you, seeking more of you, seeking _fullness_. “Harder, please, fuck me harder,” he begs, voice ringing loudly, knowing he has nothing left to lose, but everything to gain should he beg you right. His balls swing heavy between his legs; his hole is a warm vice around your fingers, tight and deep and intimate. “Put another finger in me, come on, I can take it.”

“Oh? Can you?” you ask, and slip a third finger into his hot, wet hole, which is dripping, drooling, oozing out some of the pre-cum you’ve been using as lube. He whimpers, then echoes a little scream as you scissor your fingers, stretching him wide. “This what you wanted, slut?” You let go of his hair and he keeps his head held up like a good fucking boy, neck twitching slightly from the weight of keeping it high. 

His voice is choppy and desperate, ragged from the exertion. “Yes, _fuck_ ,” he manages to rasp. “Feels so good,” he tells you. You squeeze a handful of ass cheek, then slap the firm skin while thrusting your fingers deep. When he tilts his head a bit to look back at you, you notice that his cheeks are ridged pink, bottom lip damp and swollen from grinding his teeth against it. A moan hangs just under his tongue, cut into sporadic, desperate whines. Beads of sweat dot his temple, threaten to slide down the razor-angled slopes of his face. Between his gasps of pleasure, you can hear his breathing, heavy and rapid; and closer to your ears is the telltale noise of sex—the slick, squelching sound of your fingers inside him, of the tight muscles flexing with each delve into him. 

Fondly, you tell him, “That’s a good boy,” and dip your head to kiss the cleft of his ass. “Falling apart for me. So pretty like this.” To accentuate this point, you rub the pads of your fingers over his prostate, nursing the bundle of nerves with soft, firm strokes. 

The thick muscles of his thighs tense, the strong lines of veins pumping hard under his pale body as he groans and gasps. You dapple a quick kiss to his thigh, massaging it with your lips. He relaxes a bit, falls into your touch, chest working overtime as he breathes deep, long, ragged sighs that echo with little grunts at each slip of your fingers. 

His hole swallows up your hand with ardor, wailing so desperately, crying out in need, and you can tell as well as he can that he’s loosened enough. 

If this is heaven, sliding your fingers out is akin to hell. And poor Viggo—he must be thinking his whole consciousness may be in jeopardy. He cries out in annoyance, a sound of angry agony, then snaps his mouth shut the second the noise leaves his lips. Realizing, you think, that removing your hand is a necessary evil. When your fingers are free, you take note of his hole: red, wet, pulsing. Practically begging for a cock in it. 

Viggo whines in impatience. You can sense the feistiness in him, the urge to demand, to talk and talk until he gets what he wants. He’s only holding his tongue out of obedience now, you guess. Or over-amplified anticipation. 

“Turn around,” you order, and he does, flipping around on his back. He props himself up on a pillow so he’s leaning against it, long legs spread open, cock heavy where it lifts just above his belly. He’s breathing deep, face flushed, shoulders rising and falling in deep, shaky heaves. His pert little nipples are hard, and beads of sweat freckle the downy hair over his chest. “Jesus,” you say, unable to put it into more astute words. “Jesus, you’re gorgeous.” 

Blinking, his long blond lashes frame his sky-spun eyes. Then he smiles, saying, “Fuck me,” asking a reward to go along with your praise. He doesn’t say please. Doesn’t need to. Knows you’ll give it to him. 

And you will. Eventually. 

Beckoning him with a finger, you urge him forward. Like he already knows what you’re about to do, his eyes go straight to the dildo. It’s a beautiful recreation: thick and veiny with a dark, bulbous head and enough girth to give his ass a fine challenge. He reaches forward to grasp it in his hands, testing the weight of it, the thickness between his fingers. 

Sharply, you order, “Suck,” and he moves like a flash, mouth open and quickly stretched around the cock. His rose-garden lips wrap tight around it, head bobbing as he sucks. Doe-soft eyes look up at you, and the crow’s feet crinkled around them show you he’s got the essence of a smile on his face. Jesus, he’s so good at this, so passionate, and it seems almost a waste that you can’t sense his tongue—and you find yourself startlingly jealous of the dildo inside Viggo’s molten-hot mouth. If you could feel it, you’d certainly come in a heartbeat. _How_ is he so good at this? The cock disappears between his lips, head moving rhythmically and _Jesus_ , he’s perfect. 

“Fucking _made_ for sucking cock, aren’t you, slut?” you muse, settling back to enjoy the show and letting him take the reins for now, licking and suckling at his own pace. If he minds the rubber-worn taste, he gives no indication; his sole focus is taking the dildo as deep as he can, his Adam’s apple jolting as he swallows it down. An expert tongue flicks over the ridged veins, like he would if the dick were authentic. Like every inch needs to be addressed with his mouth. He sucks like he’s starving, like he’s searching for something, like he’s slave to the silicone. 

When he pulls back to breathe, you note that the dildo is soaked in spit, messy white on faux skin. Desire drips deep inside you and you shiver, the need to fuck him clouding your consciousness. You want him on this cock. _Need_ him on this cock. His mouth, his ass, anything. Grasping his hair by the gray-gold bangs that frame his forehead, you pull him forward, forcing him face-first on the dick. He chokes in surprise, then swallows it down, hollowing his cheeks. The taut skin makes his cheekbones look like the edges of a blade, all rigid angles and too-sharp curves. Steadily, you start to thrust into his mouth, slowly at first. Relaxing his throat, he sighs a little and lets you fuck his face. Little moans flee from his lips as you move—satisfied hums and greedy whines, small adjustments of breath as he searches for air. 

Revered by his skill, you loosen your grip on his hair and stroke your hand through it, petting the soft strands and rubbing your thumb over his wrinkled forehead. You have an inkling that he’d stay here forever if you told him to, making those beautiful noises and sucking dick like it’s all he knows how to do.

“Such a good boy, Viggo,” you tell him, smiling. He blinks in gratitude, huffs a little sigh of appreciation. How deep is that fucking throat? Thrusting as far back as you can, you watch his eyes blow in panic and then calm significantly as he adjusts to the stretch. You can’t feel the dildo at the back of his throat, but you know it’s there, testing his reflexes and claiming him as yours. “ _Fuck_ , perfect. Is that good for you, baby?”

Vigorously, he nods as much as he can; the gesture manifests as a backwards tilt of the head, an eager little maneuver that manages to look more like he’s cracking his neck than agreeing. 

Unsatisfied, you ask, “What was that?”, chiding him, goading him just because you _can_. Letting him wonder how to answer for a second, perhaps a second too long, makes his eyes blow wide with confusion as he tries to figure out how to speak with a throat full of cock. His mouth stays open, gaping wide and wet, as you guide the dildo out. “Hmm? This good for you, Vig?” You tap the silicone against his stone-sharp cheek; not hard, but enough to shock him into replying. 

He replies, “Yes, _so_ good,” in a dazed, almost robotic voice, low and gravelly, words scraped over his swollen throat. Pleased, you fuck his face full again, his throat flexing around it, choking out sweet, strangled noises. You could watch him forever, tongue tripping over the toy and eyelashes fluttering as he gazes up at you. 

How far would he go for this? Wondering, you slip the cock out from between pink, puffy lips and tap it against his face, once, twice, his own drool catching on his chin and sticking. Testing him, urging him to fight for it, to come and get it if he dares. 

And he does, chasing the dildo with wide jaws, licking the underside, swiping a pink tongue over as much as he can reach before taking it all greedily. Then it’s back to fucking him, stuttering your hips as you breach the tight vice of his willing mouth over and over. 

When you pull out, he heaves a long breath, sputtering at the fresh air. You stroke the back of his neck gently, whisper praises along his jaw as you lean down to kiss him. Mouth pressed securely against his, your upper lip seeks out the scar above his lips and bumps against the brazen, ridged skin softly. Lovingly. He shudders in delight, kissing you back with fervor, making you giddy with the hint of his scruff against your lips, the suggestion of tongue dangling there. You can detect the indents of his teeth behind his lips, taste the hot, humid breaths that sneak through his mouth like twists of smoke. 

Breaking the kiss, you trail your lips from his ear to his jawline, sucking intently on the supple skin. Cradling his face in your hands, your fingers melt into the silver-struck strands at his temples, thumbs playing against his cheekbones. He basks in the attention, mewling a little as you shift your tongue to lick over his chin, sweeping over the creased divot in the center. The gentle touches cause him to gasp lightly, tossing his head back to expose his neck. You kiss up the flesh, tasting sweat under your teeth, then go back to his mouth for a moment, claim his lips as your own, bask in the noises he makes against your tongue. 

The urge to fuck him is overwhelming, so sincerely and desperately does your mind plead for it, and his body beckons you, makes you dizzy—but you have a sense that he’ll get to begging again before long; pretty cries of need dripping from his tongue. You have to hear them, have to make him fucking cry from wanting it, from wanting you to fuck his ass, and all other thoughts scamper away at this new directive taking hold in your lust-addled brain. 

So you lick down his neck, sighing as he swallows against your tongue, and bleed a bruise onto his shoulder for good measure. Let him feel it in the morning, let him fester over it, let it remind him of you every time he presses his fingers against the purple-red slash of teeth and skin and blood. “Shit,” he groans, trying to grab onto you, maybe pull you off, but he doesn’t manage to do anything except grunt through his teeth, a noise wedged between pleasure and pain. “Ah, fuck.” When you pull back, his shoulder glows angrily in violet, mottled and over-warm. 

Sighing fondly, his name is a revelation off your lips. “Viggo.” You’re thankful he’s managed to stay pliant under your fingers, because there’s only a slim chance you could fight him off if he decided to play dirty. But he’s looking at you like he wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything, eyes wide and soft, mouth parted like a scorned angel, lying in wait to be fucked in the ass with your cock. _Your_ cock. Fuck. 

He tries again. “Please fuck me.” His voice is broken, needy, wanton, eyebrows knit together in complete concentration, like begging is the only thing on his mind, that nothing else matters to him but getting fucked. How cute is that?

You run a hand down his chest, sighing at the hard muscles buried beneath soft hair. “I promise I’m gonna fuck you,” you tell him, nuzzling his chest, breathing him in full, fuzz tickling into your cheeks. He smells like earth—sandalwood maybe, or spruce, something darkly forest-spun that radiates off his skin. “Just hold tight for me, okay? Let me make you feel good?”

Biting his lip, he nods shakily. You snake your hand down to wrap around his weeping cock, giving it a couple firm strokes to get him whining again. Then you hover your mouth over one of his nipples, swallowing it down and twisting it between your teeth before he has time to realize your intentions. 

His whole body tenses up and he thrashes, legs flailing while mindless _fuck_ s spill from his frantic form. A wry smile comes to your lips at the way his whole body reacts so intensely to your tongue on his tits, teeth torturing his poor nipple, turning the little bud red and abused, hard under your ministrations. You use your free hand to squeeze the little bundle of tender nerves around his nipple, and you swell the surplus skin into your mouth too. The urge to make him cry with want rears its head, so you pull back only to say, “Let me hear you,” before suckling his tit again. You squeeze his cock for good measure. 

He says, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” slow and scratchy like he’s forgotten how to speak. “C’mon, need you to _fuck_ me, _oh_ , Christ.” 

“I could leave you here,” you say thoughtfully, palming his dick with lazy, lewd strokes. It’s leaking again, so hard it’s throbbing, _pulsing_ in your hand as wetness oozes onto your knuckles. You decide to lick the other nipple, flitting your tongue delicately over it, a kindly kiss to counter the assault you left on the first. “Leave you here with my marks on you, crying for someone to fuck you.”

“No!” he says loudly, frantically trying to kick you—not to hurt, you suspect, but to get your attention. Poor Viggo; doesn’t he know he already has it all and more to spare? “Please!”

As you bite down sharply on his nipple, he bucks his hips instinctively, cock falling out of your grip with the erratic motion. You wriggle your way on top of him so you’re sitting squarely on his hips, pinning him down. He could throw you off, and looks at you with a darkened, angry look that says he is very well thinking of it. But you lean forward over his writhing body and plant a kiss on his puffy pink lips, and he goes still. 

He gazes at you, and you smile to see desperate tears welling at the reddened rims of his eyes, blending the blue into thundercloud-gray as he whines out one more time, low and soft like it’s all he has left: “Please fuck me. Please.” He’s so worked up he can’t even manage a full breath, just a shaky exhale as he wets his lips with a dry tongue. He looks debauched, defeated, destroyed—and he hasn't even been fucked yet. A single tear stumbles down his face slowly, tripping over his cheekbone, leaving a shining, wet track in its wake. 

You lap it up where it lands on the little constellation of wrinkles next to his cheek, a gentle laze of tongue over sweet salt. Satisfied, you nuzzle into his neck and blow the triumphant words deftly into his ear, “Yes. I think I’ll fuck you now. I’ll take care of you, sweet thing.” Lovingly, you wipe away another tear with your thumb, noting the damp eyelashes blinking in disbelief that you’ve _finally_ agreed to fuck him after all the taunts, all the too-close touches and tantalizing teases. 

Swiping a bottle of lube from the bedside counter, you unscrew it and pump a handful into your palm. The gel is cold but welcoming, and you trail a sleek hand over the dildo, where it mingles with traces of Viggo’s spit. He watches you intently, catching the passage of your hand down the toy, and you note his cock stirring, jerking for attention at the lewd strokes of your hand. The plastic practically glows, the gel making the toy smooth and secure to ensure an easy slide. 

Grinning, you settle between his legs, a careful hand resting on his quivering thigh, and analyze the situation: his shaky-sweet form beneath you; sweat trickling down his pretty face, sticky and sultry enough to taste; bluest of blue eyes blinking in rapid succession; the hint of his small, square teeth grinding into his bottom lip, bruising it red with bites. 

Gripping his tensed thighs, you yank him towards you by his knees, his trembling, twitching body flush against yours as you wrap his legs around your hips; his paleness a white pallor against the black straps of the harness. Tentatively, you let go of one of his legs and smile to see him keep it folded around your back, foot hanging delicately against your body. You give his ass a firm, hard slap, the sound of skin on skin very loud in the bedroom, his cheeks tinting crimson from the force of the smack. He twitches at the spank, as if his first instinct is to move away; instead, he wiggles closer to you. 

“Come on,” he says, breath falling from his lips in unsteady gasps, reaching for you with a hand, fingers brushing at your hip, clasping loosely around the straps. “I’m _ready_.” 

And so are you. 

With excited, shallow breaths—you’re just as desperate as he is, but masking it more efficiently—you grasp the slickened, slippery cock in your hand and rub it against his perineum, smearing lube up and down and around his hole, messy yet meticulous. You let your other hand rest on his knee, holding it for leverage. 

Blood thrums loudly in your ears, your heart hammering hard in your chest. Voice low and greedy, you ask, “Can you spread yourself open for me, Vig?” 

Nodding slowly, he takes his fingers to his cheeks and pulls gently, exposing his needy, weeping hole for you. Only for you. It flutters, his muscles waiting, wanting, wanton. 

“ _God_ , you’re pretty,” you breathe, taking a moment to mesh the sight into your memories before pushing inside him. His ass swallows the dildo like it was made for it, silicone disappearing into him with a symphony of squelching sounds. You study his face as you go deeper, slowly but steadily breaching him. His teeth are ground together, hissing out through the little gaps between them, eyes stormcloud hazy. Tear-tracks decorate the sallow skin under his eyes, a reminder of what he wanted, what he _begged for_. Pressing into him all the way, as deep as you can push, your clit sparks with newfound gratification as the dildo rests trapped between your body and his prostate. 

_Fuck_ tumbles out of his mouth again and again like a prayer, scratchy-sweet from his swollen throat. He clings around you tighter, pulling you closer to the warm heat of his body. You slide the dildo out halfway, push back in slowly, tipping your hips to angle into his prostate. He blanches, body convulsing like a lost little leaf and color draining from his flushed face. You pull back again and thrust shallow and strong, leaving just a hint of what you can do with the cock between your legs. You want this to last. For both of you. 

Resting a hand on his shoulder, you dig into the freckled flesh just enough to gain purchase while you pound him. The air is heavy with sweat, with the sound of sex—his moans melting in your ears, your encouragements dangling there for him to accept, a shrill sucking as he opens up to the toy inside him. Each movement jostles a new noise out of his throat, whimpers tumbling from his tongue, urging you to fuck him harder, faster, deeper. 

Once you’ve established a rhythm of plunging into him, you lean over his heaving torso, pressing your lips to his. He opens his mouth for you, his cries vibrating against your teeth, the bitter, leafy taste of his morning maté bursting on your tongue. Your hips stutter against him, the occasional erratic buck overtaking you as you struggle to maintain some semblance of consistency, to not overwhelm him all at once. 

You can’t feel the cock sliding into his tight heat, but you can _hear_ it—the slosh of lube every time you move, the sucking sounds of his ass swallowing everything you give him. You know the feeling of being fucked, of being full, mind melting with each thrust. And in that sense, you _can_ feel yourself inside him—some shared sensation, a phantom feeling you share with him. 

Every time you push deep, your clit presses against the base of the dildo, breeding bliss deep inside you, and you fuck him with more calculated shoves, seeking out that pleasure for yourself. Curiously, you slide a hand down his frame, fingering for where your bodies meet, flicking over his hole, feeling it flex, taking everything you’re giving him like it was made for this. Opens to take the thickness in, stretching with each push. 

“Good boy,” you whisper against his lips, holding deep inside him. “Such a good fucking boy. All for me, yeah?”

Clawing at your shoulders, he whines and nods, little half-moon grips of his nails grinding into your collarbone. Nuzzling into his cheek, the salty smell of dried tears greets you. Letting a hand slide over his arm, you thumb over the glossy, dark feathers of his crow tattoo, press into the abrasions of ink on his bicep as the muscles ripple and contract with how he’s holding onto you. You trail down over the sun-scorched freckles on his forearm, the scars dusting his skin like maps to stories you still want to hear. When you reach his wrist, you twine your thumb underneath his braided bracelet of red and blue, tracing the intricate pattern delicately. Did he make this himself? Another story you don’t know; another story you’ll remember to ask about when you don’t have a cock splitting his ass open. 

Grasping his hand with your own, you guide it up by his head. “Stay,” you tell him firmly, and he nods in submission, leaving his hand there when you let go. Settling into an upright stance, you grip his hips and pull him tight against you, noting that he looks like a fucking porn star, lying beneath you with one arm thrown askew, sand-salt hairs frolicking down his chest, his voice all breathy-soft as he gasps out the occasional curse, samplings from the treasure-trove of languages he speaks. You dig your thumbnail into the black crescent tattoo hanging on the horizon of his hipbone, the surrounding flesh igniting ruby-red from the touch. 

“Viggo,” you murmur, his name a praise, a prayer, a performance. He rolls his hips against you, looks absolutely promiscuous with half-lidded eyes and narrowed brows as he manages to choke out “ _harder_ ” between the labored wheezes of breath, chest heaving and a dark blush tinting his cheeks: a hint at coyness despite his demands. Viggo can be a brat when he wants to be, and from the sly cants of his hips and the heel he’s dug into the small of your back, you know he still has that fight in him, the part of him that cried sweet tears for a dick in him. 

So you fuck him harder, listening to his moans fluttering in his throat, ending as quiet gasps out of his lips. The hand by his head curls into a fist, shoulder flexing, fingers fisting into the sheets, gripping what he can reach of the silken fabric. His eyes flicker over your form, the irises icy-gray and cloudy-clear, expression soft and pleading. You smile, very aware of the way his body tenses and jerks when the dildo slips into the pliant hole and slides up against his prostate, a telltale sign of his full, frantic fulfillment. His body jostles from how hard he’s being fucked, each thrust careening him against the headboard, shaking and sweaty. 

“Touch me,” he says, and your eyes dart from his face to his cock. Neglected but still raised at half-hardness, it quivers in midair. A little pool of arousal has dribbled on his belly, mingling with the tawny, soft hair sprinkled on his skin. The tip is smeared wet, and a particularly strong thrust dips it down into the puddle of pre-cum again. You could watch this for hours: his poor cock begging for attention, harboring so much excitement; perhaps confused as to how to find its own pleasure without the sensation of slick heat around it. 

You pretend to consider this proposal, stroking over the small swell of his belly, testing the age-lines you find there, sagged and stretched skin _oh-so-beautiful_ , the years written on his body. “I don’t know, Vig. I’m already fucking you. I thought that’s what you wanted.” 

“So _close_ ,” he murmurs, thrashing so that his cock jumps at the movement, slapping against his stomach. Growling, he arches his back as if that will make it better and present his dick with the touch he seeks. You pull him close as you can, tight against him, letting the dildo fill him, and he wails, shivering, shaking, shouting a shattered “please!” that fills your ears with bliss to see him beg so sweetly. The word is tripped over a scratchy throat, taut from a lack of air as his lungs do more gasping than deep breaths. 

And as much as you’ve loved teasing him, testing him, making him work for it all—your love for him wins out, writes itself clearly on the forefront of your frantic mind. You lean down to kiss him and as you do, you wrap your hand around his weeping cock. It’s heat-heavy in your hand, and he whines as you stroke it, fingers deft and delightful. His lips are supple against yours, and he barely kisses back, just moans into you with hot sighs. 

“I’ve got you, Viggo,” you whisper, taking your free hand to his shoulder, fucking him full and fast, praying your lust-driven thrusts are deep enough to hit his prostate. From his begging cries, you’d take a hard bet that they are. No, you’re _sure_ that they are. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. That’s it.” His eyes flicker, a seafoam flash, deep and pleading. You quicken your hand on his cock—he’s fully hard, _so_ hard, dick pulsing in your fingers, and he wraps his legs tight around you, keeping you close to him. “Come on, Vig. Come for me.” 

Something passes over his face—an awed, electrified expression, mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight and muscles clenched—and then he’s crying out over and over again, spilling wet and thick and warm and white-hot all over your knuckles, his chest heaving and body going lax and limp underneath you. You urge him through it, pressing kisses to his temple, thumbing over his cockhead and squeezing out the last few drops. And on top of his orgasm, you note that your clit throbs beneath the support of the dildo, seeking out pressure from being this deep inside him, and you think that if you had just the tiniest bit more of a touch, you would be coming along with him. He moans a broken, bated little sob before going silent. When he opens his eyes, his lashes quiver, breaths shallow, face flushed and dazed. His mouth gapes, but he doesn’t say anything; just stares at you as he wheezes and whines his way back to reality. 

“That’s my good boy,” you tell him, planting a kiss to his drool-drenched lips. He smiles, glassy-eyed, gasps to get air back in his lungs. He’s gone limp, limbs loose, and he doesn’t try to hang onto you as you sit up.

Your hand shines white with cooling cum, and you take it to your mouth and lap it up. The taste of him explodes on your tongue, tangy-sweet and slightly bitter, a flavor you cherish. When your fingers are cum-free, you tap him lightly on the knee to get his attention before pulling the dildo out. He nods, letting you know to proceed, and you slide it out carefully and completely. He shivers at the loss, gazing at the damp, messy toy, something you can’t read passing over his face. Wonder, maybe, or awe. You unclasp the laces from your thighs and let the harness slide loose onto the bed, leaving you bare. 

Still too fucked out to come up with words, he looks at you, lips parted. You clamber onto his hips, slide forward so you’re resting on his belly. The small but forceful pressure from the strap-on melded with the sights and sounds of Viggo coming has sent you unbearably close to the edge. All you need is a little push. 

“This okay?” you ask, hands on his sweat-stricken shoulders. He nods vigorously, chokes out a half-whispered “yeah.” Looking down at him as he stares up at you, you’re struck again by how _gorgeous_ he is, how every part of his body is a wholly exquisite work of art. His beauty is what fills your mind as you start to move, rubbing your soaking cunt over his swollen belly. 

You press your thumb to the side of his face, ghosting over wrinkles and creases, playing against bone. “Beautiful,” is what you tell him, hoping he knows how true it is, how you’ve never spoken anything more sincere. Your fingers brush over the sparse hairs of his brow, then snaking into his fair, flaxen hair, grabbing a handful and tugging on it as you ride him, riding him hard enough to make shocks run electric through your whole body. He gasps lightly as you tug his hair, pull him towards you just enough to yank his head upwards. Letting go just slightly, you allow it to fall back, but press your fingers tight to his scalp, holding him still and secure. 

You angle your pelvis downwards, seeking more pressure on your clit and finding it. He lifts his hips up to aid you, his skin soft and muscles hard beneath you. And then you’re rocked to the core, orgasm rearing out of the gratification of your body, colors criss-crossing behind your eyes, your clit pounding, delight quickening in your very bones, cunt squeezing and gushing from inside you, spilling heat over his belly, leaving him a slickened mess. _Jesus_ , of _course_ you’re worked up enough to squirt, to leak your release all over him, claim his body with your juices. The satisfaction of this swirls in your mind beneath a steady hum of bliss as you come down from it, heaving, sweating, shuddering, your clit numb from the force of your orgasm and thighs sore from your frantic movements. 

When you pry your eyes open, he’s looking at you half-dazed like he can’t fully process what just happened, but bemusement sparkles in that summer-clear gaze, a grin sneaking through his mouth, rouge bright on his cheeks. He giggles, a sweet little noise that overtakes his whole body, his shoulders shaking with the fit of it.

Clambering off him, you flop down beside him. He opens his arms to you, lets you burrow into the heat of him, twining your bodies together. He whispers, “Thank you,” against your neck, his fingernails scraping lightly over your back, drawing little circles and brushstroke patterns. The two of you stay like this for countless moments, coming down from heaven together, holding onto each other as reality rears her head back to life. You press kisses into his flesh—not needy, biting kisses, but little love pecks, just to taste him on your lips. Just to stay close to him.

“How’s your ass doing?” you ask. Your tone is lighthearted, teasing, but you mean it completely; you’ve been on the receiving end of _his_ fat cock and have suffered the soreness to prove it. The dildo isn’t _that_ big, you think, glancing over at where you tossed it on the bed—certainly not as big as some of the cocks that have had Viggo—but you know its girth and length are no simple feat. 

“Ouch,” he says, but he’s smiling, mirth manifesting on that sword-cut face. A flash of teeth in the dim light. “But I’ll live. You know I love it. And you always use more than enough lube.”

“Need anything?” you ask him, happy to take care of him in this giddy, glowing state of post-sex glory. 

He shakes his head. “Just a cig.” 

Sitting up, you stifle a chuckle at the conglomeration of items that sit on the nightstand—a bottle of lube, a maté gourd, a travel-sized case of pain relievers, a miniature sketchpad and a few assorted pencils, a pack of smokes and Viggo’s lighter, a box of tissues, and a pocket-sized poetry book. A map of his treasures spread out before you. You pick out a cigarette and toss him that and the lighter, and he cups his hands to flame up the end of the cig. For good measure, you also swipe a tissue and clean off his belly, sopping up your glistening wetness. With your other hand you seek out his hair, stroking over the sweat-damp locks, scratching against his scalp and petting it down with soft touches. 

A little hum of gratitude seeps from his lips between his teeth and the cigarette. He leans back against the pillow, but tilts his head away from you as he smokes, making sure you aren’t in the line of fumes unless you choose to be. You love him all the more for it as puffs of his breaths stick in the sex-thick air. 

And such is how the night progresses: curled up on his chest, golden-gray hairs making a delicate pillow against your cheek, and nothing between the two of you except his heartbeat, steadfast against the crest of your ear. The steady music of his breaths is a bountiful safety net. He kisses your forehead, and you hold him tighter, never wanting to let go of this man with his artist’s heart and poet’s brain, velvet hands and warm body. 

When you kiss him next, his mouth is smoke-soft and heat, pliant and perfect against yours, and you cradle his head in your hands, thinking that he very well may be the best part of your world. 


End file.
